The streets of Gotham felt heavier under Alex's feet than they had before. Maybe it was the ache in his body from the alley fight, or the faint sting of every cut and bruise throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Or maybe it was the weight of the man walking beside him — Ted Grant.
Neither of them spoke much on the way. Ted walked with that kind of old-world stillness, the kind only fighters who've survived more battles than they can count seem to carry. His boots tapped the cracked pavement with a steady, unhurried rhythm, while Alex limped a little, shoulders burning from the exhaustion of earlier.
The night air still clung to him. The sharp scent of the alley was gone, replaced by the faint smell of fried food drifting out of some late-night shop, but his mind kept replaying the fight — the man's knife flashing, the way his own stamina had drained, the hopelessness that had almost swallowed him whole.
Alex turned down a narrow street, leading Ted toward his neighborhood. The buildings here were lower, older, some with boards nailed over broken windows. It was quieter too, almost unnaturally so — the kind of quiet that made you aware of every little sound your footsteps made.
When they reached the front steps of his home, Alex hesitated. The porch light was still on, casting a pale yellow glow over the chipped paint of the door. Through the window beside it, he could see the shadows of movement inside. His stomach tightened. He didn't know if they'd been pacing, searching, or just sitting there worrying — but he knew they'd been waiting.
He turned the doorknob.
The moment the door swung open, the air inside seemed to rush at him. His mom's voice cracked out first — not even words at first, just the sound of relief breaking into something like a sob. She was on him in an instant, arms wrapping around him so tightly his ribs ached. Her scent — faint perfume and laundry detergent — made the tension in his chest almost unbearable.
"Alex! Where were you?!" she demanded, her voice trembling between anger and worry. "Do you know how long we've been—? I thought—"
Her hands cupped his face, eyes scanning every scratch and bruise. She pressed her forehead against his for a moment before pulling back to look at him again. "You're hurt… what happened?"
His dad came into the hallway, his brow furrowed deep. The man's voice was quieter than his mother's, but the edge in it was sharp. "You had us thinking the worst, Alex."
Alex's mouth opened — but before he could answer, his dad's eyes shifted past him.
Ted had stepped into the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding the bag from CVS.
For a moment, Alex's dad just stared. Then his eyes narrowed, like he was trying to place a memory. Recognition hit him like a spark.
"Wait a second… you're Ted Grant," his dad said, his voice low but almost disbelieving. "Wildcat. Gotham's champ."
Ted gave a small nod. "That's me," he said simply, like it was just a fact, not a title.
The tension in the air shifted. Alex's dad stepped forward, shaking Ted's hand firmly. There was something almost respectful in his tone now. "I used to watch your fights. My old man took me to see you once at the Civic Arena. You knocked a guy out in the second round."
Ted gave the faintest hint of a smile. "Yeah… that was a good night."
Alex's mom looked between them, clearly still too wound up to care much about boxing history. "That's nice and all, but I'd like to know why my son's banged up and why you're with him."
Ted didn't answer right away. Instead, he glanced at Alex, then back to his father. "Mind if we talk? Outside."
His dad looked at Alex for a long moment, then nodded and followed Ted out onto the porch. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Alex with his mom.
She sat him down on the couch without a word, fetched a first-aid kit, and started tending to his cuts with careful, practiced hands. Every time she dabbed at a wound, she gave him that sharp, worried look that only mothers seemed able to pull off. "You scared me, Alex," she whispered.
Outside, the night air carried the quiet hum of distant traffic. Ted leaned against the porch railing, folding his arms. "Your kid's got something," he began. "I saw it tonight. Not skill — not yet — but the kind of instincts you can't teach. He's fast, he learns quick, and he doesn't back down."
Alex's dad was silent, listening.
"But," Ted continued, "he's also vulnerable. No technique. No endurance. Out there in Gotham…" He glanced toward the dark streets. "…you don't get many second chances. I've been around long enough to know that."
His dad shifted his weight, eyes narrowing slightly. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I want to train him," Ted said plainly. "Not just for sport — to survive. Gotham will eat him alive if he doesn't know how to fight back."
There was a long pause. His dad's eyes drifted to the street, then back to Ted. "You think I don't know what this city is? I grew up here. I've seen what it does to people." His voice softened a little. "And I've worked my whole life to keep him away from that."
Ted's tone stayed steady. "Keeping him away won't be enough forever. Sooner or later, trouble finds you here. It's better he's ready before it does."
Silence stretched between them, the weight of the city pressing in from all sides. Finally, his dad exhaled. "You're right," he said quietly. "Here, you have to be strong enough to protect yourself… or you die."
Ted nodded once. "Then let me help him get there."
The decision settled in the air like a final bell at the end of a round. His dad held out his hand again. "Alright. You train him."
When they stepped back inside, Alex looked up from the couch, confused at the sudden shift in his father's expression.
"Alex," his dad said, standing beside Ted, "you're going to be training with him."
For a moment, Alex just stared — then the realization hit. His heart pounded, not from fear this time, but from something sharper, brighter. Gratitude. He didn't know if it was to Ted, his dad, or whoever had dropped him into this world in the first place — maybe all of them.
"Yes," he said, the word carrying more weight than he expected.
Ted gave a small smirk. "Good. First thing tomorrow, we start."
Alex nodded, the tiredness in his body drowned out by something else entirely. For the first time since he'd arrived in Gotham, he felt like the ground beneath him wasn't about to give way.